


Bedtime Story

by EvelynsGrave



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Dating, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Mild Smut, Religious Discussion, Sort of? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 08:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynsGrave/pseuds/EvelynsGrave
Summary: One night, he stayed up too late and she stayed for far too long.





	Bedtime Story

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by a recent vacation.

> I believe there’s a time when the cord can be cut and this vision ends  
(Let this vision end)  
But I’m gonna die in a place that don’t know my name  
And I’m gonna cry in a space that don’t hold my name  
\- Lonely Soul, Unkle 

Their roles in the story never change. 

He’s the hero, the savior of the day, the good. She’s the enemy, the self-serving thief who betrays him and leaves him dry and hanging. Sometimes, she’s the anti-hero behind the scenes, her actions speaking more about her than her words will ever do, but in the eyes of those that judge, the complexity doesn’t matter; he’s light and she’s darkness, and they do not belong together. 

Yet, he was the only soul who ever tried to break her barriers as the story became complicated over the years. He became more than the poor fool who she lies to and steals from, but she stayed steadfast in her role despite his begging and hoping— not for her to flip over to the good side, no, he’d become smarter than that. His pleads were simple: _Stay a little longer_— she does when she’s in the mood. _Will you hold me_— why not, she’s crossed the line already. 

_Tell me your story._

_I’ll tell you nothing,_ she would laugh at his face and walk away. Nothing else makes her disappear faster than hearing the damned request. He learned his lesson and stopped asking so he can keep seeing her. 

One night, he stayed up too late and she stayed for far too long.

His arm was curled around her waist. She was facing the window, admiring the city lights. She thought he’d dozed off, but out of the blue he asked a random question. “Did you like Spain?” 

The non-infected parts, he elaborated. 

She did. It was old and romantic and sinister. “Mm-hmm.” 

She felt him smile against the cool skin of her back. “Me too.”

_I thought so._

“There’s an art museum in the state park. They’re holding an exhibit about the Spanish golden era. Mostly paintings, I heard.”

Yes, that state park where he jogs every morning. There are a couple of interesting places she’d like to see there, but she was too busy memorizing his route and waiting for him to pass by her bench to go to any of them. 

“Come see it with me.”

She was supposed to tell him he’s lame and boring before turning him down. She did neither. 

“And? You’ll take me to the fanciest restaurant downtown after that? Take me home and fuck me?” She asked mockingly instead.

She felt him shrug against her back. “Only if you’re hungry right after. If not, I’ll make us something at home. Then fuck. Or fuck first. Whatever you decide.”

What more harm could it do? She’s already let him occupy a permanent space in her head. Was she supposed to draw the line on him cooking for her after a trip to a damn museum? 

“You’re gonna poison my food and get this over with? Or just drug me?” 

“...I haven’t decided yet.”

She just indirectly said yes to a date.

She was going to stand him up.

**~**

He didn’t get stood up. 

There she was, standing in line beside him. They both get stamped on their wrists, told to abide by the rules: no flash photography, no crossing beyond the marked lines on the floor. 

They were greeted by paintings of monarchs and conquistadors, maps and books behind glass. His arm never held hers or wrapped around her waist. For once, he didn’t seem to care if she vanished at some point. He didn’t even follow her pace as she took her time lingering on the details, exploring every gaunt face, tracing visible brush strokes with her eyes. She was no fan of the style and era, but everything in front of her impressed her nonetheless. 

He might not share the same appreciation, as he moved along pretty swiftly, but she doubted that he’d feel any less inclined to visit even if she’d said no. Did she ever imagine him to be the type to enjoy a trip to an art museum? No, but she wasn’t surprised just the same. He’s romantic and introspective. He had an appreciation for the serene and the solemn. Maybe he liked this part of history. Maybe he just liked paintings. She’d ask him later. 

She moved on to a different section. 

It was all religion. Saints and crucifixes. The Madonna and Child. Christ on the cross, Christ with his Apostles. John the Baptist sculpted from wood, John the Baptist’s head on a platter in canvas. 

She stopped in front of a haunting painting of a woman, a pensive look perfectly captured by the artist in those dark eyes of hers. Was it regret? Guilt? Sorrow? She was pinned there in silent admiration. He joined her side after a few minutes.

“María Magdalena,” he pronounced the name with an impeccable Spanish accent that made her raise an eyebrow in approval, and she remembered when he told her how much he enjoyed annoying Ramón Salazar by exaggerating his American accent whenever they traded barbs in Spanish. 

“So I take it you’re a fan of paintings?” she finally asked. 

“Not so much as I’m a fan of history,” he answered. “Never was my favorite subject in school, though. I’ve found out lately how much more interesting it is to learn in a museum than from a book.” 

“I see,” she stated. “You seem to know your biblical figures well.”

He shrugged. “I was raised Catholic. Currently lapsed.”

“So you haven’t abandoned the faith, but stopped practicing. Why do you hold on to it?” 

_Because quitting isn’t in your blood, and you always have trouble letting go?_

“Maybe lapsed isn’t the right word,” he responded, eyes narrowed in thought. “I see it this way— with all the evil shit that’s happened to the world, one would think that the concept of a god is a bunch of bull. But what if everything religion taught us is wrong? Maybe there is a god, and he just doesn’t intervene.”

“That makes you neither lapsed or a Catholic. That makes you a deist.” 

“... Right,” he looked at her, his expression a mixture of genuine surprise and curiosity. Whether it’s over her talking about religion, or knowing the terms, she didn’t care to ask, and she moved on to the next painting, leaving him dumbfounded in front of Mary Magdalene. 

**~**

She wasn’t hungry after touring the exhibit.

“Anything. I’m not picky,” she tells him anyway when he asked what he should make for dinner. She went on dates with the men she had used and killed. There was one who she was even in a ‘relationship’ with, but even that one never cooked for her. 

That day was a day of firsts, up to the stroke of midnight. 

He worked in the kitchen methodically. He left no pile of dishes in the sink. He was swift and tidy. He knew what he was doing and loved it. A hobby of his, in fact. She’d seen the cookbooks when she first broke in his apartment. 

She didn’t bother to wait for the food to help herself to a glass of wine as she sat cross-legged on a stool by the counter. They talked about his favorite cuisine to make, if he cooked more often than he dined out. As he removed the pan from the heat and turned the stove off, he turned around and caught her with an amused look on her face. 

“How am I gonna spike your food if you keep watching over me like a hawk?”

She smiled over her glass and said nothing. He plated the food and served it on the dining table. He sat across from her. 

She took a bite and was genuinely impressed. “Your mother taught you well.”

“I taught myself,” he responded, voice slightly softer, but it was the way he cast his eyes down too suddenly that gave it away. 

A sore subject. A can of worms. _Let’s open it,_ she thought mischievously. 

“Both parents still alive?”

“...My dad is.”

So she’s either dead, or dead to him. “Any siblings?”

“Only child.”

“Ah, someone got undivided attention,” she smiled and took another bite. 

He scoffed. “I wish.”

“Were you closer to mom or to dad?” She wanted to test how deep she can prod; if he kept responding, she’d get to know him better, if he retaliated with his own questions, she’d get to leave early. A win-win situation at the cost of his discomfort. 

He chewed his food a little bit too swiftly and looked at anything but her. He looked like he was about to say something, but held back at the very last second to finally look her in the eyes. 

“Asking questions about my family, huh? We’re making progress,” he deviated before she could exercise her one-sidedness further. 

“We’re on a date after all,” she teased. 

“A good date requires two people to share about themselves. This is more like an interrogation.” 

“In other words, I’m lousy,” she gestured at him with her fork. She decided to indulge him for a bit. “Fine. I guess you earned it to ask something about me. Make it count.” 

He put his fork down.

“Tell me your story.” 

That line had been her cue to leave a handful of times before. But she’d be lying to say that she wasn’t enjoying his company, this slice of normalcy that was a luxury she could barely afford. She decided not to leave— at least not just yet. 

She shook her head and laughed.

“You’re gonna have to do more than take me out and cook for me to know my dangerous secrets. Like, you know, torture me. Or spike my food.”

His eyebrows furrowed in return. 

“Dangerous secrets? You think that’s what I meant this whole time..?”

He snickered as he chewed. 

“Like you’d tell me who you work for or what your motives are,” he stared at her incredulously. “No. I just want to know more about you. As a person.”

_That’s just equally laughable._

She was trying to come up with a snarky or flippant remark, but he continued, “And I don’t wanna hear about Ada Wong. I want to know about _you._ Anything.”

She paid the price of toying with him longer than usual and he sensed it. But she wasn’t going to admit defeat. 

She’d give him a zinger. Something he’ll spend the whole day thinking about. Something she wanted to get off her chest, as she was stuck with it thanks to an alias. 

“I’m not Chinese.”

He looked like he was going to choke on his food, and she had to stifle a laugh. He reached for his glass of water.

“So... you’re...?” he trailed off, but she kept quiet until he was unable to hold it back. 

“Japanese? Thai? Vietnamese? Cam—

“Who’s doing the interrogation now,” she remarked, bringing her glass to her lips and smiling. “Don’t push it, rookie.”

He looked like he was going to insist but she knew that he wouldn’t. That slight tilt of the head to the left was a habit of his that was present as early as Raccoon City. An unremarkable gesture to the eyes of the non-observant, but she had been studying him long enough. It was something he did when he felt insecure or uncertain. That was the moment she knew that he wasn’t going to push the limit despite this little display of bravado.

Finally that flash of disappointment appeared in his vibrant eyes, and he let out the softest of sighs to signal his defeat.

“Food’s really great. I’m impressed,” she said, giving credit where it’s due.

“Thanks.”

He picked at his food with light strokes of his fork, his eyes cast down yet again. It was a stupid attempt and he knew it, but it didn’t stop him from asking, from taking a risk. Very typical of him, and her heart ached for snuffing out his little flame, right after fanning it even, and in the midst of her torn emotions, she kept her eyes focused on that glass of water resting beside his plate. 

**~**

They fucked twice. 

That was part of the game. A tryst wouldn’t be complete without it. She rode him with reckless abandon in the bedroom. His fingers gripped on her thighs so tight she thought it might bruise in the morning. He joined her in the shower after, took her from behind as the warm water cascaded down their skins until it became too humid and suffocating, and she cursed as she turned the shower off, prompting a small laugh to escape his throat in between his grunts and moans. 

They fucked because otherwise, he’d keep playing the songs she liked in his guitar, and she’d already told him about two. They fucked because otherwise, they’d have to cuddle on the couch longer to talk about the places they’ve always liked to visit.

They fucked because not fucking would lead to more attempts at getting to know her beyond what she allowed anyone to. His companionship was more than enough, but she couldn’t let him know that. That is not how she operates, not how things are supposed to be. She’d already broken too many rules that night, and she might not even be done just yet.

She put on his dress shirt after shower and went out to the balcony alone to smoke. 

One stick, sometimes two. That’s how it usually goes on those nights that she feels like waiting for him to doze off before vanishing. The second stick was consumed halfway when she caught a glimpse of his naked form coming out of his room. She watched him approach the floor to ceiling window and he nudged his head towards the bedroom. 

_Come back to bed,_ he mouthed at her. 

She showed him her cigarette, lifting it. 

She watched him turn around and reach for the half-full glass of water that he left on the counter on his way back. He drank all of its contents and put it back where it was. 

That was the moment she knew how the night would end. 

It was another habit of his, maybe one he’d developed as a child, and she imagined his young self coming down the stairs at night for a glass of milk when he couldn’t sleep. A seemingly harmless habit indeed, but too dangerous to keep around the likes of her. 

Today, he had gotten what he asked for and more, but she couldn’t give him the happy ending he had always wanted.

That is not how she operates, and that is not how things are supposed to be. 

**~**

For good measure, she smoked a third cigarette before returning to the bedroom. 

He almost made it to his default sleeping position of being on his belly. He was sprawled on his side, one arm dangling over the other end of the bed, his naked lower half barely covered by tangled sheets. The Nebelung sniffed at his face, its long whiskers tickling a cheek, and he stirred a little. 

It’s a miracle drug, this sedative. It works as quickly as it dissolves in water. It leaves no residual headaches or drowsiness, perhaps even makes a good sleeping aid, at least according to the poor souls who she’d used it on. They always tell her in the morning how good their sleep was, granted of course that they haven’t died by her hands that night. 

She’s used it one too many times, but never on him until tonight. She never planned on using it on him at all— but in the middle of the night, if he asked her with a soft whisper, looked her in the eye and pleaded like a child— _stay_— she was too afraid that she just might. 

She climbed on the bed slowly, and before she settled she couldn’t help but admire the serenity on his handsome face; his eyelashes were long and dark, his full, rosy lips slightly parted, and she pressed hers onto them lightly. 

“Dinner was lovely. You’re pretty good at that hobby of yours,” she whispered so softly. She pressed another kiss on his neck, on that spot right below his ear. “I’ve got a hobby I’m pretty good at, too. I paint. Bet you had no idea how excited I was to come with you.”

She rose, careful not to put too much weight on the bed, and once she was comfortable, she lifted his head ever so gently to place it on her lap. Her long fingers stroked the smooth ash blonde hair on his head, and she tried to steady her own breaths by mimicking the gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

“I’ll tell you a story...” 

There was a slight pang in her heart as soon as the last word escaped her mouth. Such a simple request that she couldn’t grant, for she had been adamant that all her stories are secrets that she’d take with her to the grave. For all the rules and beliefs that he’d shattered, it’s this one that she refuses to let him touch— for her story, and all the people in it, long gone but not forgotten, are what she considers most sacred. 

He really tried to take it from her, as if he hadn’t taken enough, but she took one look at that face— and realized that it would grant her some form of peace to share it— as long as it was whispered to ears that are unable to hear, to a mind that is unable to process.

“I wasn’t an only child like you. But it sure felt like it,” she said, stroking his hair. “There were four of us. They killed my brothers along with my father. They all went to school. That was enough reason to get you killed that time.”

She paused, chest heavy from remembering all she had read about that part of history. She was both blessed and cursed to have escaped death in such dark times. 

“They said to kill anyone who’s ever touched a book or done anything other than farm the lands,” she continued, “That was the plan. None of us understood. We were all starving and cold and lost when we were carrying those guns.” 

Her lips trembled, prompting her to bite down on it, and she tried to focus on his body, the constellation of moles on his skin, the goosebumps illuminated by the calming glow of the nightstand. She ran the palm of her hand along his arm as if she could smooth them out, and grabbed the tangled mess of sheets from his hip to pull it to his chest and cover him. 

“They killed you if you believed in any god. Lucky me didn’t know religion existed until I crossed the border. That’s where I saw them. The temples. They were... breathtaking,” she mused, eyes staring at nothing as her mind took her back to the vision; as soon as she had the chance, she’d read about god and his many forms, the many ways that people worshipped, the many interpretations of people who believed in his existence, or argued the lack thereof.

“God wasn’t there in that place I came from. But who knows. Maybe you’re right. If there ever is a god, he never intervened. Maybe... maybe he is cruel.”

She bowed down to plant another kiss on his forehead, moving his hair away with long, slender fingers. “You say you’d rather learn history from a museum than read books. Not all museums are as elegant as the one we’ve been to.” 

Her throat burned and her eyes stung, but she swallowed hard and refused to give in to the pain and the tremendous release that came with it. She shut her eyes tightly at the thought of those places she’d seen in the pages of a book. They were turned into museums now, reminders of the past that should never be repeated. Never in her lifetime would she have the strength to visit. 

She would rather look at pristinely framed images created by talented hands with brushes than look at photographs of thousands of executed prisoners and find her mother among them. 

She would rather accidentally step on marked lines on the marbled floor from trying to get too close to a masterpiece than trip on the bones of her father and brothers, buried in shallow graves in the fields. 

Placing his head gently on the pillow, she shifted her position to lay on her side, face to face with his sleeping form. She grabbed his hand and laced her fingers with his. 

“I was closer to my mother because we only had each other,” she whispered softly, smiling to herself. “But she could only go so far. She told me what to say and do so I could keep my life. It worked. They gave me a gun instead of using it on me. Not to sound ungrateful... But sometimes I still regret that I listened.”

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it lightly. 

“She called me...” she stopped to contemplate, but ultimately decided against speaking the name her mother called her. “Well, let’s just say... she called me her little star.”

She squeezed his hand and placed it right on top of her chest that was beating so wildly. Untangling their fingers, she lifted the same hand to caress his cheek and run the pad of her thumb on the tip of his nose down to his lips. She sighed softly, unable to hold back a smile. 

“Look what you’ve done to me, handsome.”

Staring at his beautiful face, she thought that maybe in the future, he’d pen a book about his life, or tell his story to his grandchildren; maybe he’d mention that there was a woman in his life who called herself Ada Wong, and that she wasn’t always heartless as the other stories tell, but he’d never get to tell them what she told him tonight, for that story is hers— and hers only. 

If he woke up at that moment, he would have heard her ask if she could stay a little longer, if he could hold her and never let go. But he slept and slept, so soundly and peacefully, and the warmth from the sheets where she had laid had turned cold, the pillow dampened from her tears had dried.

When he woke up in the morning, he couldn’t help but think that it was the best sleep he’s had in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
